Following Hadrian

 

Portrait Bust of the Emperor Hadrian, 125-30 CE, via the British Museum, London.

Come let’s follow Hadrian 

Carole Raddato’s wonderful blog.

Tara dear, this is especially for you.

 

Grief is a Mouse by Emily Dickinson

Grief is a mouse-

And chooses Wainscot in the Breast

For his Shy House--

And baffles quest--

Grief is a Thief--quick startled--

Pricks His Ear--report to Hear--

Of that Vast Dark--

That swept His Being --back

Grief is a Juggler-- boldest at the Play--

Lest if He flinch--the eye that way

Pounce on His Bruises--One--say--or Three

Grief is a Gourmand--spare is Luxury

Best Grief is Tongueless--before He'll tell--

Burn Him in the Public Square--

His Ashes --will

Possibly--if they refuse--How then know--

Since a Rack couldn't coax a syllable-- now.

Griefcollage©2010Babetteandfriends

Oscar Wilde's fashion quote

Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.

Oscar Wilde

Senza Nobilita by Yanka

snob

1781, "a shoemaker, a shoemaker's apprentice," of unknown origin. It came to be used in Cambridge University slang c.1796 for "townsman, local merchant," and by 1831 it was being used for "person of the ordinary or lower classes." Meaning "person who vulgarly apes his social superiors" arose 1843, popularized 1848 by William Thackeray's "Book of Snobs." The meaning later broadened to include those who insist on their gentility, in addition to those who merely aspire to it, and by 1911 had its main modern sense of "one who despises those considered inferior in rank, attainment, or taste."

from Douglas Harper's Online Etymology Dictionary

Etymology of poet

poet

c.1300, from O.Fr. poete (12c.), from L. poeta "poet, author," from Gk. poetes "maker, author, poet," from poiein "to make or compose," from PIE *kwoiwo-"making," from base *kwei- "to make" (cf. Skt. cinoti "heaping up, piling up," O.C.S. cinu "act, deed, order"). Replaced O.E. scop (which survives in scoff). Used in 14c., as in classical languages, for all sorts of writers or composers of works of literature. Poète maudit, “a poet insufficiently appreciated by his contemporaries,” lit. “cursed poet,” attested by 1930, from French (1884, Verlaine).

poem

1540s (replacing poesy), from M.Fr. poème (14c.), from L. poema "verse, poetry," from Gk. poema "thing made or created, fiction, poetical work," from poein"to make or compose"

poetry

late 14c., from O.Fr. poetrie (13c.), from M.L. poetria (c.650), from L. poeta (see poet). In classical Latin, poetria meant "poetess." English lacks a true verb form in this group of words, though poeticize (1804), poetize (1580s, from Fr. poétiser), and poetrize (c.1600) all have been tried.

from Douglas Harper Online Etymology Dictionary

Arcadia

Annibale Carracci. River Landscape, c1590.

FROM

The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia, 1593

by Sir Philip Sidney

[O sweet woods]

O sweet woods, the delight of solitariness! Oh, how much I do like your solitariness! Where man's mind hath a freed consideration, Of goodness to receive lovely direction. Where senses do behold th' order of heav'nly host, And wise thoughts do behold what the creator is; Contemplation here holdeth his only seat, Bounded with no limits, born with a wing of hope, Climbs even unto the stars, nature is under it. Nought disturbs thy quiet, all to thy service yields, Each sight draws on a thought (thought, mother of science) Sweet birds kindly do grant harmony unto thee, Fair trees' shade is enough fortification, Nor danger to thyself if 't be not in thyself. O sweet woods, the delight of solitariness! Oh, how much I do like your solitariness! Here nor treason is hid, veilëd in innocence, Nor envy's snaky eye finds any harbor here, Nor flatterers' venomous insinuations, Nor coming humorists' puddled opinions, Nor courteous ruin of proffered usury, Nor time prattled away, cradle of ignorance, Nor causeless duty, nor cumber of arrogance, Nor trifling title of vanity dazzleth us, Nor golden manacles stand for a paradise, Here wrong's name is unheard, slander a monster is; Keep thy sprite from abuse, here no abuse doth haunt. What man grafts in a tree dissimulation? O sweet woods, the delight of solitariness! Oh, how well I do like your solitariness! Yet, dear soil, if a soul closed in a mansion As sweet as violets, fair as lily is, Straight as cedar, a voice stains the canary birds, Whose shade safety doth hold, danger avoideth her; Such wisdom that in her lives speculation; Such goodness that in her simplicity triumphs; Where envy's snaky eye winketh or else dieth; Slander wants a pretext, flattery gone beyond; Oh! if such a one have bent to a lonely life, Her steps glad we receive, glad we receive her eyes, And think not she doth hurt our solitariness, For such company decks such solitariness.

---

Source:
A Sixteenth Century Anthology. Arthur Symons, Ed.
London: Blackie & Son, Ltd., 1905. 121-122.

Groucho Collage

one of these grouchy Groucho grouch days... Enjoy!

On Order and Housekeeping

Rage for Order

BY DAVID LUNDE

I guess you could call it

a sort of sympathetic magic.

How else to explain

this obsessive reorganizing

of my home, my books, my papers,

my poems, this housekeeping

of my hard drive and floppies,

all the deleting and casting away

of redundancy and obsolescence,

dead files and moved-on addresses

and the scrubbing, the constant

scrubbing and dusting and the howl

of the protesting vacuum

that struggles to inhale

at least the 70% of house-dust

that is dead human skin

some of which might be hers.

Source: Poetry (March 1999)

Caged Bird, Maya Angelou

freebirdillustration©2011Babetteandfriends

A free bird leaps

on the back of the wind

and floats downstream

till the current ends

and dips his wing

in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks

down his narrow cage

can seldom see through

his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and

his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn

and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom

From 2010-1011

NEW BEGINNINGS 

 

Start the year with my favorite singer Lorraine Hunt and of course Glenn Gould.

 

 

 

 

 

As I Walked Out One Evening

As I Walked Out One Evening by W.H.Auden As I walked out one evening, Walking down Bristol Street, The crowds upon the pavement Were fields of harvest wheat. And down by the brimming river I heard a lover sing Under an arch of the railway: 'Love has no ending. 'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you Till China and Africa meet, And the river jumps over the mountain And the salmon sing in the street, 'I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky. 'The years shall run like rabbits, For in my arms I hold The Flower of the Ages, And the first love of the world.' But all the clocks in the city Began to whirr and chime: 'O let not Time deceive you, You cannot conquer Time. 'In the burrows of the Nightmare Where Justice naked is, Time watches from the shadow And coughs when you would kiss. 'In headaches and in worry Vaguely life leaks away, And Time will have his fancy To-morrow or to-day. 'Into many a green valley Drifts the appalling snow; Time breaks the threaded dances And the diver's brilliant bow. 'O plunge your hands in water, Plunge them in up to the wrist; Stare, stare in the basin And wonder what you've missed. 'The glacier knocks in the cupboard, The desert sighs in the bed, And the crack in the tea-cup opens A lane to the land of the dead. 'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes And the Giant is enchanting to Jack, And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer, And Jill goes down on her back. 'O look, look in the mirror? O look in your distress: Life remains a blessing Although you cannot bless. 'O stand, stand at the window As the tears scald and start; You shall love your crooked neighbour With your crooked heart.' It was late, late in the evening, The lovers they were gone; The clocks had ceased their chiming, And the deep river ran on.